


Hot Chocolate

by ohlooktheresabee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Affection, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Happy Ending, Hot Chocolate, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, POV John Watson, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Podfic Available, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock's Heart, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:55:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27829336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlooktheresabee/pseuds/ohlooktheresabee
Summary: With Sherrinford but a distant memory, Christmas season approaches and John Watson is not in the mood. His friend and flatmate Sherlock disappears for a week, leaving him behind again, and John doesn’t think that things can get any worse. However, with a little help from their friends, he might finally start seeing the reasons to enjoy this Christmas after all...Combining all the feels, all the fluff, two clueless pining idiots who can’t communicate, a dash of parentlock, a sprinkling of lovesick angst (awww) and what do we get? A Christmassy one-shot to warm your heart - plus a bonus recipe for the perfect hot chocolate!Podfic now available! See end notes.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 53
Kudos: 168
Collections: 2020 Advent Collection Johnlock Style, Festive Johnlock Collection





	Hot Chocolate

It was September 1st and a double celebration in 221B: Rosie’s first day of primary school, and Mrs. Hudson’s 80th birthday. At the ever-so-mature age of 5, Rosie had magnanimously decided that Nana Hudson could share in her special day, mortifying John with her pronouncement that, “It’s OK Daddy, because Nana is really, really, really old and we should be nice to her.” Thankfully Mrs. Hudson continued to cling to her delusional opinion that Rosie always meant the nicest possible interpretation of anything she said, and thanked the little princess for her condescension. John only allowed it at all as he knew that ‘Nana Hudson’ was off out with her girlfriends to harass the fit announcer at the local bingo hall in a proper celebration the following night. 

Sherlock had ordered in a meal from Angelo’s, who had also sent along a bottle of decent wine for the adults and a flask of hot cocoa for Rosie. Later, with a sigh borne of both too much good food and the knowledge that Rosie was going to be bouncing off the walls shortly due to her sugar-loaded cocoa-rush, John watched as Sherlock perched her up on the kitchen counter and tried to wipe the chocolatey evidence off of her face with a damp cloth as she wriggled and chattered on about her first day at school. Mrs. Hudson smiled over at the domestic scene, then winked at John conspiratorially. Both of them knew what the other was thinking – how far Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath, had come in the years they had known him. John sometimes couldn’t believe that his friend was the same man he had met so many years ago, but here they were. It wasn’t so much that he’d changed: more that he was letting them see what had always been there. The flashes of the kind and funny man the detective kept so carefully hidden from the rest of the world became longer and longer these days – though the public would never know it. 

John had moved back into the flat two years after Mary’s death, and Sherlock had taken on co-parenting responsibilities without a conversation or a complaint. Rosie absolutely adored him, mainly because he was a slave to her every whim. He had become an integral part of the family, though they never actually talked about it. Sometimes John wondered if he should feel guilty about this or press the issue – but then communication had never been their strong point. The idea of rocking the boat and losing any of this… whatever it was, was untenable. Seeing Sherlock now chatting and relaxed and laughing with Rosie… John couldn’t lose it. Couldn’t lose him.

“I used to love hot chocolate,” Mrs. Hudson said, interrupting his musings. He realized he had been staring at Sherlock a little longer than necessary, and now Mrs. Hudson’s twinkling gaze had a more knowing shade to it as she peered at him over the open flask of hot cocoa. He cleared his throat, determined as ever to soldier on in the face of adversity. 

“Used to?” he asked. 

“Mmm.” Mrs. Hudson took a sip from the flask experimentally then pursed her lips in mild distaste. “Not this though, this is Italian style. I used to really like the stuff they have in South America. There was this one Christmas, years ago, when Frank took me on a trip to Peru. I mean obviously he was going back and forth due to the drugs trade,” she said calmly with a firm nod in his direction. John of course knew that Frank Hudson was a notorious drug dealer who was eventually convicted and executed for a double murder many years before, but apart from that he knew very little. He nodded back for her to continue, too used by now to these kinds of extraordinary details that surrounded all of their private lives. 

“Anyway,” she went on, “it was the most delicious stuff you ever did taste. Rich and creamy, so thick you could stand your spoon up in it. And it had chilli in it! Chilli, I said to Frank, what do you want chilli in your chocolate for? He said it was to match how spicy I was,” she said, laughing a little. “He always was a flatterer.” John smiled back at her, but soon her face turned more pensive. “He flattered when it suited him, anyway. He wasn’t good for much else towards the end though, you know.” She turned back towards the kitchen where Sherlock was now engaged in a quiet debate with the princess about why her opinion that a large bowl of ice cream must immediately follow the crème brulee she had already polished off, was an inherently flawed argument. “Do you know, that hot chocolate was about the only good thing about that whole Christmas,” Mrs. Hudson said, folding her arms. “Funny the things we remember, eh?”

“You could still make that hot chocolate,” John offered, hoping to bring back her smile. 

“Oh no, darling,” she said, her non-nonsense face appearing. “I’m 80 years old, long done chasing after the impossible. I’ve no idea what was even in it, let along where to get the ingredients. No, it’s lost to me, but it’s OK – I gained a lot of things over the years too.” She did smile then, and it was genuine and wide as she took in the remains of the lavish meal, the unopened gifts, and Sherlock scooping ice cream into a bowl in the kitchen overseen by a triumphant Rosie. 

“I always liked the Tesco powdered hot chocolate actually,” John said. Mrs. Hudson gave him a mildly appalled look. “I mean it! Reminds me of Christmas with my mum.” He didn’t add that it had been just about the only treat she could afford after they had moved away from his dad and into cold council funded housing, or that his dad would have sneered at the little boy for enjoying… well, anything, come to think of it. Something of it must have shown on his face despite his silence, as Mrs. Hudson covered his hand with her own and gave a brief squeeze. 

“It’s funny how memories can sneak up on, hmm?” she said with a little sigh. “All the good tangled up with the bad. You know, sometimes I wish… Oh good gracious!” 

John lunged forward slightly too late to prevent a glob of ice cream falling onto Mrs. Hudson’s lap, Rosie looking shocked and holding a dripping spoon next to her. 

“Rosie!”

“I’m sorry Nana, I just wanted you to have some!” Rosie said, still frozen in place and voice high. John noted a minor wobble in her lower lip which bode well for no one. 

“Now, Watson, no need for that – apologise to Nana Hudson,” said Sherlock, appearing behind her looking a bit frazzled in his ice-cream and cocoa-spotted dressing gown. 

The lower-lip wobbled even more. 

“It’s quite alright,” said Mrs. Hudson, cleaning herself up with a napkin and crouching down as much as she was able. “See? No harm done, Rosie.” Rosie sniffled and launched herself at her for a fierce hug, apologising again. “Oof! My, you are getting big aren’t you! And your first day of school too, must have been a very long day!” Mrs. Hudson looked over her shoulder meaningfully at John and he took the hint, lifting the tired little girl out of the way so Mrs. Hudson could get herself upright. “I think it’s time for you to go to bed, sweetheart,” she said, giving Rosie a quick kiss and becoming much stickier in the process. “Thank you, boys, for the lovely dinner.” 

“Hmmm yes, yes,” groused Sherlock as she grabbed his ear and pulled him down to kiss his blushing cheek. “Many happy returns and all that.” She gave John a hug, gathered her gifts and slipped out the door just as Rosie realized she was leaving, and began to voice her displeasure at great length and volume.

*************************

Later that evening, having bribed Rosie into going to bed with the promise of yet more ice cream for breakfast (she really was the most spoiled child in all of London), John and Sherlock were finishing off their wine by the fireplace. 

“He was not a very nice man,” Sherlock said, apropos of nothing. He had changed his dressing gown and was folded up in his armchair like a piece of human origami and staring into his wine glass, the firelight softening the sharp planes of his face.

“Sorry? Who wasn’t?” John asked. 

“Frank Hudson.” 

“Oh.” John thought back on the few times the man had been mentioned – a killer who Sherlock had not only seen brought to justice, but had ensured that the death penalty was delivered to as well. “You were listening to that then, earlier?” Sherlock ignored the question.

“He was a murderer, a drug dealer, a brothel-keeper and abusive husband,” Sherlock stated, face blank, tilting his glass this way and that as if mesmerized. John blanched. 

“A bit not good, Sherlock.” Sherlock finally raised his head and peered at him, frowning. 

“Why? It’s obvious.”

“Well… yeah, OK, maybe it is,” John allowed. “But it’s still not good to say it behind your friend’s back like that. She obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, or she would have said more about him.”  
“But she was talking about him,” Sherlock argued, swirling the glass and still looking perplexed. “She sounded happy.” He took a thoughtful sip of wine. “Why did she sound happy?” Sherlock asked the question to the room, as if the table or the filing cabinets might know. 

John sighed, drinking from his own glass. “I guess she wanted to reclaim some of those good times,” John mused. “Memory… it’s complicated. You remember the good and the bad, sometimes all at once.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock sniffed. “My memories are properly organized.” 

“Must be nice,” John said, shaking his head and not really believing it for a second. Sherlock settled even further into his chair.

“They are, you know. I can walk down the halls of my mind palace and select memories as desired and as they become useful. Sentiment doesn’t come into it.”

“What about Redbeard?” said John, then immediately cursed himself. He had been putting in an effort over the summer to stop needling Sherlock about what he dubbed, ‘sentimental matters’ and accept him for who he was, but there was still the occasional slip. Sherlock had narrowed his eyes. “Sorry, ignore that. I’m just tired, think I’ll go to bed,” John said hurriedly. Sherlock watched him stand, lines of tension still etched onto his face. “I’m sorry,” John repeated.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said, tone flat, looking back at the wine glass. 

“I guess… I guess I’m a bit jealous,” John allowed, walking to the kitchen to rinse his glass. “Mrs. Hudson might be as well. Sometimes I wish I could remember the good times without the bad, too.” 

“And do the bad outweigh the good by so much?” Sherlock asked from his chair.

“Not recently,” John said, making the effort to sound breezy. “No, recently it’s been pretty good. Just gotta keep making the good memories now, yeah?” 

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, glancing at him. John nodded and decided best to leave things there and took himself off up the stairs to bed. He mused on the conversation as he got changed, careful not to wake the sleeping Rosie – having a mind palace sounded pretty good sometimes. How nice it would be to remember the good times with his mum – hell, even some with his dad – without automatically thinking of the bad. How it would be great to remember the Mary he met, rather than the Mary who died. Sometimes he thought he still might miss her… but then was he missing her, or the person he thought she was?

************************

Winter fell on London like a sledgehammer – hard, cold and unforgiving. John found himself becoming grumpier and his temper more erratic, as the nights grew longer and the days shorter. He had bought himself a daylight lamp for the surgery, and the occasional rooftop chase across London lifted his spirits slightly, but he could still see he was heading for a funk. People seemed increasingly mean-spirited to him. Patients were curt and unappreciative, parents on the school run were snide and competitive, and the officers at the yard were their usual caustic selves. That was aside from Greg of course – he was also helping keep John’s head up, alongside the more fun cases with Sherlock. It seemed like every time he really felt like he was sliding into a chasm, Greg would call for a random drink down the pub and allow him to rant it all out. Mrs. Hudson was helping too – he often came home to find candles burning on the mantlepiece, their soothing smells and soft light welcoming him back inside the flat like into a warm bath.

Christmas season was beginning, stores were blasting festive songs, but John just couldn’t seem to get into the spirit this time. In years past he had tolerated it all well enough, or at least the motions of it – put on the jumper, drink the eggnog, enjoy the decorations at least; but this year it was eluding him. His mind kept drifting to Christmases past: older ones, fraught with tension as his parents navigated around each other ‘for the good of the children’, those with only his mother, tinged with sadness as he watched her deteriorate… the mad ones with Sherlock that no-one would believe, then those with Mary, now with Rosie… But it was like the happy pieces were missing, and all that was left was the violence, the loneliness, frustration, and loss. The cold, too. 

He hated being cold.

Unfortunately, soon enough even the cases seemed to go dark - there was a particularly nasty and alarming one in mid-November, where they and the Yard had tracked down a drug-dealing and human-trafficking ring. That case had really put the nail in any goodwill towards his fellow man that John had been attempting to dredge up. Sherlock had also seemed particularly affected, ‘accidentally’ pinning their criminal to the wall and threatening to turn him into a medical marvel should he dare move a muscle. John had needed to drag him back so that the officers could make the arrest. Sherlock had been snarling at the man, “Tell me what you know!”, and the terrified criminal had mumbled something in Spanish that John hadn’t understood. Sherlock had only let him go when John grabbed him by the wrists and pulled. 

“What did he say?” John asked later once they were on their way to give their statements. He was bone-tired and freezing cold, and only wanted to get home to see Rosie and hug her until she was twenty. The horrors they had witnessed during the case seemed burned into the inside of his eyelids. “You asked him what he knew?”

“Hmm. Nothing of consequence,” said Sherlock, typing on his phone and not looking up.

“Right,” said John sceptically, but decided he just didn’t have the energy. Let Sherlock have his secrets. As he stared out the car window, various Christmas displays flashed past his view. They were completely incongruous to the awful case they had just closed, the death, the ugliness…. “Let’s not do presents this year,” he said abruptly, turning back to Sherlock. Sherlock stopped typing, surprised.

“Presents?”

“Christmas presents. You hate buying them and I never know what to get you anyway. It stresses me out, so let’s not bother. OK?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“And Rosie?”

“Oh, well, she’s different. As if you haven’t bought her half of Hamley’s already,” John said, laughing. “Christmas presents for Rosie is fine, but let’s leave it at that.” Sherlock looked at him a moment longer, gaze slowly moving over his face to gauge his sincerity, but he finally nodded in agreement. 

“Alright,” he said, and went back to typing on his phone. John felt a pang in his abdomen, and wondered why. Later as they left the Yard, Greg appeared as if on cue to invite him to the pub for a venting session the following evening. 

**********************  
A few days later, he got home late from the surgery as grumpy and irritable as ever. Sherlock and Rosie were nowhere to be seen, so he had a long hot shower to try and chase the chill and bad mood from his bones. He sat in his armchair for a while, pulling an unfamiliar blanket over him from where it was folded on the backrest. It was cable-knit just like some of his jumpers, and large and heavy enough to cover him from head to restless toes. He made a mental note to ask Mrs. Hudson where she got it from and find some way to repay her, then realized he needed to get out of his cosy cocoon to get his book if he were to really enjoy it. As he approached the bookcase adorned with yet more candles, he could hear quiet voices from upstairs. Abandoning the book, he crept up quietly, Sherlock’s rumbling voice becoming apparent the higher he went. John peeked through the door, and sure enough Rosie was in her bed well on her way to snoring, while Sherlock sat on John’s and read to her quietly from a large book. John’s chilly heart thawed slightly as he listened:

“To believe in making wishes and have faith they can come true, to believe that you can find some joy in everything you do, to believe in giving gladly, for no reason, just because… to believe in love… That’s what it means, to believe in Santa Claus.” 

Sherlock cleared his throat once he was finished, then glanced back at John as he closed the book, looking strangely guilty. John felt what might have been the first genuine smile he’d had in weeks spread across his face as he noted a light blush on his friend’s cheeks, and the mussed hair speaking of an interesting evening with Rosie. John raised a finger to his lips and beckoned him out of the room, closing the door softly behind them. Once they were back downstairs and Sherlock was sliding the book back onto the shelf, John said, 

“Thank you. I would have been home earlier but…”

“It’s fine, John.” Sherlock said, shrugging off the thanks. “It’s interesting to observe her cognitive development and how she processes information when gearing up for the evening REM cycle.” He moved off towards his microscope, cheeks still coloured a light rose. 

“Sure. And the Christmas theme was just part of the scientific enquiry, right?” John said, tone teasing. The bond that had developed between Sherlock and Rosie was really something amazing, and he treasured it.

“You did say we were still doing Christmas things for Rosie?” Sherlock said, something like anxiety in his tone that wiped the smile off of John’s face. Sherlock was gripping his microscope, knuckles white, and John rushed to reassure him.

“Hey, it’s OK, I’m just messing. I love that you’re doing Christmas things with Rosie. I’m sure she loves it too.” Sherlock blushed lightly again which caused a lump of fondness to settle in John’s throat, even as the detective started busying himself with his slides and continuing to avoid eye-contact. 

“Right. OK then. Fine.” Sherlock said, setting his eyes to the barrels and obviously uncomfortable. John sighed, regretting not only his churlish behaviour of the past month, but also his embargo on Christmas gifts – it hadn’t crossed his mind that it might all be confusing to his flatmate or cause anything other than relief. Mood rapidly deflating once again, he wished that the season and all of its associated pitfalls would be over soon. He would have had a restless night’s sleep that night as well, if the mellow tones of Sherlock’s violin had not accompanied him to bed.

**********************

In the last week of November, John found himself abruptly alone in the flat with Rosie and no detective. Sherlock had appeared in the living room one morning, proclaiming that he was ‘needed in South America for a few days’, thrust a piece of paper with a foreign phone number at him, and departed before John had fully processed what he had said. John was left standing in the cold living room, Rosie looking up at him curiously from the couch while she jabbed a sticky finger at the game on her tablet apparently without needing to even look at it. 

“Daddy, where’s South America?” she asked, in counterpoint to the electronic squeaks and trills coming from the machine. 

“It’s a long way away, princess,” he said, still flummoxed. 

“Oh. Why’s Sherlock gone there?” 

“I have no idea... Probably something to do with Uncle Mycroft,” said John while wondering if it were true. It wasn’t completely unheard of for Sherlock to disappear for days at a time, nor for him to be secretive about what he was doing, but he hadn’t done anything this surprising for a while. A few days? What did that mean, a week? Two? John was dismayed at how bleak that sounded to him… At the mention of Mycroft, Rosie had pulled a face and gone back to her game. John tried to rouse himself and went to the grate and started poking around for the necessities of lighting a fire.  
“That’s not how Sherlock does it,” Rosie cautioned from her throne. 

“Yeah? Well he’s not here so I guess Daddy will just have to muddle through,” he groused, sucking his thumb as he accidentally burned it on the matches. Rosie hummed non-committedly in response, sounding so like Sherlock that John had to look back to make sure he hadn’t magically returned. Frowning with disappointment to see only Rosie, then frowning again with guilt at that thought, he shook his head to clear it and finished laying the fire. 

*******************

Three days without Sherlock and 221B was, to put it mildly, a disaster. Cereal was ground into the living room carpet, toys were strewn around, the kitchen was grubby and John was nearing his wits’ end. He had considered calling the number Sherlock had left him, unsure how that would help, but had resisted for reasons he couldn’t fully form even in his own mind. He was also in a generally sour mood as he realized that while Mrs. Hudson was quite happy to play housekeeper (while proclaiming the opposite) for Sherlock, it seemed it didn’t extend to him. He had thought she looked upon them equally – if not as family, then at least as close friends. Apparently not, he groused to himself, knowing he was being uncharitable and ungrateful, yet unable to stop it. No fancy candles for plain old John Watson, nooo….

He was also realizing just how much Sherlock had taken on in terms of looking after Rosie. Now it was up to John to make sure she was fed, bathed, and into bed on time, not to mention taken here and there to her various appointments, he wondered how Sherlock had been doing it all. Of course John had been doing plenty of these things around his work at the surgery, but now it was his sole responsibility it seemed almost overwhelming. He’d been taking the detective completely for granted, and felt like the worst friend and parent. The realization only added to his sour mood.

Mrs. Hudson appeared on day four. 

“Hello dear! Need a babysitter for the evening?” she trilled from the doorway. Her happy gaze turned aghast as she took in the state of the place. 

“Nana!” Rosie squealed, hurtling across the room and grabbing her legs. John frowned as he picked up the Lego box and started putting the pieces back in, embarrassed. Mrs. Hudson cooed over Rosie a little longer, then spoke up again. 

“I say dear, bit of a mess, isn’t it? Not to worry, Rosie and I will sort it while you’re out tonight,” she said, patting Rosie on the head. John wanted to feel grateful but instead he was just thrown and confused.

“Out? I’m not going out?” 

“You’re not? But I thought…” They were interrupted by John’s phone ringing – Greg. John picked it up, perplexed. 

“Hello?”

“Hi mate, I’m in your area and thought you might fancy a pint or two?” John frowned, looking over at Mrs. Hudson who had already started directing Rosie to tidy her toys. Miracle of miracles, Rosie was actually following instructions. “John?” Greg said, after receiving no response.

“Sorry, sorry… uh, yeah actually. That would be good,” John said.

“Great! I’ll see you at The Bull? Twenty minutes?”

“Yeah…” He hung up, sliding the phone into his pocket. Mrs. Hudson was now in the kitchen making a start on the washing up. He walked over, still feeling off-kilter. He was annoyed but not sure why, and not sure where to direct it either.

“Mrs. Hudson… how did you know I was going out?” he asked. 

“What, dear?” she asked, all innocence, sudsing up her hands.

“You knew I was going out before I did,” he said, insistent. 

“Oh… you must have mentioned it.” She scrubbed at an encrusted pan, frowning. “How on earth did you manage this?” she said, indicating the grime. Distracted by the guilt, John tried to stop her from cleaning but she was having none of it, and he remembered the ungrateful thoughts he had been having about her with a heavy dose of remorse. “You’re going to be late, you know,” she said as he went to get the neglected vacuum out of the hall cupboard to tackle the living room carpet. 

“Er… It’s OK I’ll just tell Greg to move it to tomorrow,” he said, dithering slightly. Rosie giggled at him from the toy box.

“You’ll do no such thing! You work very hard taking care of people all day, Dr. Watson, and you need the occasional break. You go and have fun, we’ll be fine here,” Mrs. Hudson said all the while shepherding him towards the coat rack. 

John knew he was being handled. The earlier annoyance was fighting a battle with the appealing idea of an hour or two in the pub… “Thank you,” he said, giving in (probably too easily). “I really appreciate it. You be good for Nana, OK, Rosie?” The little terror rolled her eyes, perfectly imitating Sherlock.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said with some exasperation, like she could not believe how slow he was being. John felt another pang, wishing with some fervency that Sherlock was back already. He felt like he was missing a limb, and worried that there was something not good about that. He grabbed his coat and headed down the stairs, only to stop and run back up as something else occurred to him. 

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes dear, back already?” She was already draining the sink and rummaging in the cupboard underneath it to find more cleaning supplies.

“Hah, yes. Um, sorry, just one thing. I really love the candles you were putting out, uh I mean, that you have been putting out. Thank you. Just got to be careful, you know. So if you can blow them out when you leave the room, that would be… good.” It felt one hundred percent wrong to be telling his landlady how to do anything, but he had seen enough candle-related burns in the surgery to hold his tongue. Mrs. Hudson however did not seem perturbed, just confused.

“Candles? I haven’t been lighting any candles,” she said, tilting her head. 

“But… there have been these really nice candles…” he said, glancing around. 

“You mean these?” Mrs. Hudson pulled out a box from under the sink where she was looking, and sure enough there was a large selection of scented candles inside. “Nothing to do with me, dear,” she laughed, then looked at him like he was extremely slow. It seemed to be how everyone looked at him these days. 

“Oh. You mean… so it must have been…”

“Sherlock, yes dear,” she said, pushing the box into his hands. 

“Oh,” he said again, mind blank but face warm. 

“Oh indeed,” Mrs. Hudson said, leaning against the table. There was a pause as they stared at each other. “Aren’t you going out?” 

“Hmm? Oh, yes,” he said, putting the box on the table and patting it distractedly. “Out, yes…” he went back through the living room then stopped again by his armchair, his now-favourite knit blanket in disarray over it. He picked up a corner of it and turned back towards Mrs. Hudson. “And… and this?” he said, almost afraid of the answer but something warm still flaring inside. 

“Not me,” she said, grinning. 

“Right,” said John, rubbing the knit between his fingers. He felt a bit lost, gaze wandering the room until it lit on Sherlock’s violin case, a thread of sound from recent evenings playing across his memory. “Right,” he said again, dazed. 

“You get along now, John,” said Mrs. Hudson. He could hear her continuing to grin at some unknown joke through her tone of voice. “Go and tell Greg all about it,” she advised. John peered at her, but the warm feeling was slowly erasing his confusion and starting to appear on his face as well. He answered her grin with his own. 

“I will,” he said, then on impulse swept in to give her a quick hug. “I will,” he said again happily. “Thank you!”

****************************

Greg looked tired but in good spirits as John waded towards him through the crowd to ‘their’ table. 

“Alright, mate?”, he said, indicating the untouched pint in front of him. John smiled and sat down, reaching for it. 

“Yeah, good. Great, actually,” he said, grinning. After weeks (months?) without a smile, he suddenly seemed unable to stop. 

“Whoah, hold up,” laughed Greg. “Great? Who are you and what have you done with John Watson?” 

“Have I really been that bad?” John asked, contrite.

“Nah, you’re fine,” said Greg dismissively. “Just hate winter, don’t you,” he continued as if merely stating a fact. 

“Do I?” asked John. “Yeah… I guess I do, don’t I?” Greg snorted. 

“Obviously,” he said, then they both realized who he sounded like and both snorted again at the same time. “Been hanging around him too long,” Greg said, sipping his pint. 

“I miss him,” John heard himself blurt, and Greg paused in his sips. He gave John a bit of a calculating look as he set the glass back down on the table. 

“Well… yeah. You live together, raise a kid together. Work together. Of course you miss him,” he said carefully. 

“Yeah… yeah I know. But…” John fumbled with his words even as he fumbled with his glass. Greg stayed quiet, waiting. “Well… it’s not like that. It’s like… it’s all wrong when he’s not here,” he mumbled, and it felt like a confession. 

“The two of you… you do seem like two halves of a whole,” said Greg, his gaze steady. John gaped at him.

“We do?!” Greg just raised his eyebrows. “OK, OK. Yeah. I know, you’re right. We do,” John allowed, heart fluttering slightly. “Geez…” The happy mood was already starting to plummet as he considered the possibilities.

“It’s alright, mate,” said Greg. “I’m happy for you,” he added, raising his glass. 

“Happy for me?” John exclaimed a little too loudly. Greg frowned at him, so he lowered his voice and said it again, “Happy for me? This is a disaster!” he hissed.

“Why?” asked Greg bluntly. 

“Why?” echoed John, incredulous.

“Yeah, why? You miss your other half, who happens to be Sherlock. Not everyone’s cup of tea, I’ll grant you… or is it because he’s a man that’s got you in a strop?”

“What? No!” John said… and as he said it, he realized it was true. It wasn’t because Sherlock was a man, because that didn’t matter. It had never mattered. He stared at his pint, stunned. 

“Alright, easy there, Doctor,” said Greg, now sounding a little worried. “Have a drink, yeah? Calm down,” he suggested. John nodded and took three large gulps of his beer, setting it back down with a gasp. Greg eyed him carefully. 

“Better?”

“I dunno,” John admitted. He stared off into the crowd for a few seconds, then remembered Mrs. Hudson’s advice. “There are candles at home,” he tried. 

“Candles. Right…?” 

“I mean… OK, so it turns out, Sherlock has been putting out these candles, right? I thought it was Mrs. Hudson, but it was him, and he never said anything!”

“Sounds nice,” said Greg agreeably. 

“Well… yes. Yes, it is nice,” said John, trying to get his thoughts in order. “And… there’s the violin, right? Sometimes he plays this just like… noise… and other times he plays just the most amazing stuff, and I get the feeling now that…”

“Yes?” Greg nudged.

“I get the feeling… he’s been playing that stuff… for me.” 

“’Course it’s for you,” laughed Greg, and John stared at him. “You think anyone else gets to hear the good stuff? I’ve only ever heard the noise.” 

“But… there was that Christmas, before. He played then?”

“Yeah, he played for you, then,” said Greg, finishing his pint. “The rest of us just happened to be in the same room.” Greg nodded at John’s half-empty glass and John shook his head. While Greg was at the bar, he found himself once again remembering Christmases past. Sherlock playing the violin, and insulting his date. The unwelcome intrusion of Irene Adler and John feeling so jealous he could hardly stand it. Those terrible Christmases when Sherlock had been ‘gone’, the season then more dull and lifeless than any he had ever experienced. Sherlock’s battle to save them from Magnussen. Sherlock humming Christmas carols and doing Christmas crafts with baby Rosie. This year, it wasn’t even December yet and he was reading her Christmas stories at bedtime. His baritone voice echoed in John’s memory:

‘…to believe in giving gladly, for no reason, just because… to believe in love…’

Greg returned then, plunking his glass down on the table in front of him. John sighed. 

“I’ve been an utter idiot, haven’t I?” John asked.

“Yup,” agreed Greg, grinning. 

“He even bought me a blanket,” John went on, building up steam. “This lovely Aran wool blanket for my chair, because… because he knows I hate being cold… and it’s nothing like the kind of thing he’d buy for himself. Must have cost a fortune…” Greg’s grin softened slightly. 

“What did you say?” he asked. 

“Nothing!” said John, getting more upset with himself. “Nothing, I just assumed it was Mrs. Hudson, didn’t cross my mind it was Sherlock. He’s right, I see but I do not observe,” he said sitting back and frowning. 

“Hey, it’s OK. He’s coming back soon, you can sort it,” said Greg soothingly.

“But what if I… hang on. How do you know he’s coming back soon?” John asked.

“I called and asked him,” said Greg.

“You called?!”

“Well… yeah? He left a phone number, I wanted to know, so I called him,” said Greg affably. “Did he not leave you the phone number?”

“I… he… ugh. Yes, he did.”

“And you haven’t called?” 

“No,” said John, slumping. 

“You’re sitting around missing him so you… didn’t call him?”

“I didn’t know what to say!”

“Crikey,” laughed Greg. “You’re as bad as each other!” John ran his hands through his hair. 

“Hang on…” he said, thinking furiously. “Mrs. Hudson… she knew you were going to call me to come out to the pub…?” he said with a questioning lilt. Greg had the good sense to at least look slightly abashed. 

“Ah right. That,” he said, stalling with his beer. 

“Yes, that,” said John, folding his arms. “What’s that about then?” Greg sighed. 

“Look… OK, fine. Here’s the thing – when Sherlock looks a little… well, you know how if you think it’s a danger night, you call me? Or you call Mrs. Hudson, or whatever?”

“Yes?”

“Well… when you are looking a little… kind of, like it might be a ‘John’ danger night… Sherlock calls me. Or he calls Mrs. Hudson. Or both.” John dropped his arms.

“He calls you?”

“Yes.”

“When… when he’s worried about me?”

“Yes,” Greg nodded. 

“And then… you invite me to the pub?”

“Usually, yeah. And Mrs. H takes care of Rosie if Sherlock is out.”

John blew out a breath, flabbergasted. He knew on some level that he shouldn’t be at all surprised: Sherlock had been taking care of him since the day they met, but to hear it all laid out like this… He cast around for something to say, reeling. His eyes alighted on a young family a couple tables over, parents clinking wine glasses together while their little boy drank his soda with both hands. They looked…

“Greg?”

“Yeah, mate?”

“...When is he coming back?”

******************************

John was guiltily relieved that Sherlock arrived back at 221B on December 2nd during the day while he had a shift at the surgery. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say to him, and the added stress of trying to appear to be anything less than ecstatic at his return was possibly going to send him over the edge. It wasn’t that he couldn’t think of enough to say, but rather the opposite: he wanted to apologise for being such a grump since the winter days had started shortening. He wanted to thank Sherlock for everything he had done for him, not just this season but all those since they’d met. He wanted to explain how Baker Street was just not the same without him, that he, John, wasn’t the same without him. He wanted to ask him to never ever go away, ever again… He wanted to ask him to be… well, his. Be John’s. He wanted to know if Sherlock was interested in… more. Being more. Doing more…

It was rather a lot.

In between patients, John was also stressing out and imagining how all this was going to be received. He could picture Sherlock snorting at all the sentiment and flat-out denying that all this evidence of care was anything more than being an acceptable flatmate. He could see him listing off rapid-fire all the reasons that John and Rosie’s happiness made for a better working environment and John was reading too much into it. He could also see him turning tail and disappearing off again for a few days and waiting for John to come to his senses and stop risking the status quo. 

What John couldn’t see, if he were honest with himself, was Sherlock opening up to him in return. Not because the man wasn’t capable of it, just that it seemed too fantastical to even hope for.  
Still… he hoped. John couldn’t keep letting all these things pass by unnoticed. He couldn’t keep pretending that he didn’t feel something stronger for Sherlock than friendship. And if it turned out it was one-sided, that all these things Sherlock did were merely one friend to another, then… well. John would have to accept it, and start being a much better friend in return. 

When the time had come to go home to the flat, John had worked himself into quite a state. His hair was a mess from running his hands through it, his heart rate was way too high and there was a prickly feeling all over his skin. This was a massive mistake, he fretted, thoughts circling so quickly on the walk home that he barely knew which street to take. This is really, really stupid, the thoughts continued, home sighted in the distance. You are an absolute idiot if you say anything about any of this, came the thoughts, as he climbed the steps, nauseated.

He stopped in the doorway of the flat, took one look inside, and heaved a sigh of relief as the destructive thoughts and feelings fell away, as if snow from a mountain – because Sherlock was home, his bag was by the door, he was standing on a chair fixing fairy lights around the window, he was bantering with a laughing Rosie, he was doing as he was told by Mrs. Hudson… he was home and it was perfect. John felt his whole body relax. 

“Daddy!” Rosie called and ran over to hug him. He laughed, something joyful springing to life inside, and lifted her up to twirl her around. “Daddy!” she squeaked again, surprised but happy. He laughed again and kissed her forehead as he set her down. “Sherlock’s home!” she said, pointing. 

“Yes, I know, sweetheart,” he said, looking over her head and grinning towards the window. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, hands still working to pin up the lights, and gave one of his quick smiles. “Welcome back,” John said, walking further into the room. Mrs. Hudson smiled at him as well, then darted her eyes from Sherlock back to John, raising her eyebrows comically. Emboldened, John risked, “We missed you.” 

Sherlock looked at him again, brow drawn. “I was gone less than a week,” he said, and John felt even warmer at the sound of his voice. 

“Well… turns out a week is too long,” John said stoutly, and Sherlock’s eyes widened before he turned back to the lights, ears red. Mrs. Hudson looked dangerously close to exploding with excitement, and John knew that she would be texting her co-conspirator Greg Lestrade at the earliest opportunity to inform him of developments. John held up a warning hand towards her, and she did at least attempt to take her thrilled expression down a notch. 

“It’s looking lovely, Sherlock,” she said, gazing at the lights. 

“Mmm, yes. John, can you manage the other side?” Sherlock asked, climbing down from the chair. 

“Sure,” said John, still smiling. He shucked his coat as Sherlock moved past him, barely resisting the urge to reach out for a hug. Sherlock’s ears were still red, but there was also a happy softness to his face. He went off into the kitchen to busy himself with something, trailed closely by Rosie, as John reached up to attach the remaining lights to the sides of the windows where he could reach. 

“Yes dear, just attach them at intervals like the left side,” Mrs. Hudson said loudly. Then in a whisper, “Should I take Rosie down to stay with me this evening?” There was a mix of both innuendo and that unquenchable excitement in her tone, causing John’s nerves to make an unwelcome resurgence. 

“I… I don’t…” he tried, dropping one of the cable ties. 

“It’s alright, dear,” Mrs. Hudson soothed. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll have little Miss with me, we’ll stay out of your way, and you and Sherlock can… talk.” John gave her a mildly exasperated look which rolled off her completely as he started on the next set of lights. 

“And what if I have no idea what to say?” he whispered, face red. Mrs. Hudson looked at him fondly. 

“It’s the Christmas season, darling,” she said. She went to the plug outlet, flipping a switch, and the tiny lights flared into life. “There’s magic in the air. You’ll do fine.” 

“Daddy!” Rosie called happily. She and Sherlock were coming back into the room, Sherlock balancing mugs on a tray. “Sherlock made hot chocolate!” she said. 

“Oh, how nice,” said Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock remained mute – in fact he looked a bit on-edge now. He glanced down at the tray, and as Mrs. Hudson reached for a mug he rotated it slightly so she had to reach for another. She gave him a questioning look but he ignored her, extending the tray to John, then Rosie. He then took the last mug and raised it. John couldn’t be sure, but it seemed Sherlock’s hand was trembling slightly despite the warmth from the fire. 

“Nice to be home,” he said, eyes finally reaching John’s, and John felt his stomach clench at the cautious, hopeful look. 

John raised his mug in return. “Great to have you home,” he said softly, and a tentative smile started to spread over Sherlock’s face.

“Oh!” 

John spun in alarm and reached for Mrs. Hudson – he had seen her suddenly drop from the corner of his eye and for a second thought she was fainting – but she had dropped into a chair, as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She was staring into her mug, face white, with a tell-tale remnant of chocolate on her upper lip. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” John asked, setting his own mug on the table and crouching down in front of her. Disturbed, he noted a tear run down her face and she didn’t look up. “Sherlock, get a glass of water,” John said, looking around and up at him. He saw that Sherlock looked… defeated? He was almost as pale as Mrs. Hudson. He was staring at where she sat slumped in her chair, and made an aborted step towards her. 

“Not… not good?” he asked, and his voice sounded all wrong – shaky and quiet. 

“Sherlock…” started John… Rosie was looking between all the adults, confused.

“No,” Mrs. Hudson said quietly, some colour returning to her face. John felt Sherlock waver, moving backwards. Mrs. Hudson looked up, finally, more tears running down her cheeks, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, but… she was smiling. “Thank you,” she said quietly, intensely. There was a glow behind her eyes. “Sherlock… Thank you.” She stared into her mug again, and took another sip, eyes closed and expression smoothing out into something… peaceful.... 

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock said, voice a bit steadier but still withdrawing. He was almost back at the kitchen. 

“No, it isn’t,” Mrs. Hudson said softly, eyes still closed. John felt completely lost. 

“Wait, are you alright? What is going on?” he said, standing up. Mrs. Hudson fished a tissue out from her sleeve and dried her eyes, laughing a little. She sounded different.

“Have some hot chocolate, John,” she said, as Rosie started to climb into her lap for a consoling hug. 

“What?” Mrs. Hudson only looked pointedly at his mug on the table, so he reached for it and took a sip.

Almost immediately, a vision of his smiling mother appeared as the familiar taste filled both mouth and nose. She was sitting on the floor next to him and Harry, laughing at their antics. There was their old plastic tree, the few presents from the pound shop wrapped in brown paper but no less cherished for it. Here was his old chipped mug in his hands, the one he always insisted on having so his mum could have the best china one. And here was that flavour, so immediately known, that it was as if no time had passed at all between then and now. No matter what happened over those years; the hardships, the arguments, the cold… his mother had done everything in her power to provide a happy Christmas, the warmth of which always saw them through the winter chills. 

John stared down at his mug, stunned.

“A little spicy, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson said from her chair. 

John frowned. 

“No? This is… well, it’s Tesco’s own brand. It’s the one…” It was Mrs. Hudson’s turn to frown, and she reached for his mug. Sherlock was all the way back in the kitchen, and Rosie took off again to find him. John handed the mug over, and she peered between his mug and hers, her face clearing. She smelled both of them one by one, and smiled back at him, eyes shining. 

“What?” he said, looking between the two mugs. The colour of the liquid looked different...

“Tesco’s own, you’re right,” she said, handing his back and standing up resolutely. She looked ten years younger. “Rosie, you’re coming to stay with me tonight. Come along, dear,” she called. There was an excited shriek and Rosie came hurtling towards her, holding a large insulated flask. 

“Sherlock said this is for you,” she said, waving it at Mrs. Hudson. 

John was worried to see Mrs. Hudson’s lip tremble a bit at that, but all she said was, “Lovely, and you can carry it for me, can’t you, sweety?” as they headed for the door. Rosie paused just long enough to run back and hug John’s legs. Mrs. Hudson stopped by the kitchen, where Sherlock was industriously washing up some pots and pans and ignoring everyone. “Thank you, love,” John heard her say softly. Sherlock hunched his shoulders and kept on with the washing up, not responding, as Mrs. Hudson and Rosie slipped out of the flat. 

John sipped his hot chocolate as a stalling tactic – it was so much better than the more expensive brand that Angelo had brought them, ages ago – at least in his opinion. It filled him up with happy memories, and he found that this time, the bad ones stayed back in the shadows where they belonged. He wondered if it were the fairy lights, or the joy at having Sherlock back. Maybe it was some of that Christmas magic in the air after all. 

Finishing the drink, he stood a little taller and approached the kitchen. Sherlock was stacking the dishes up. He glanced at John, then reached towards him for his dirty mug. 

“Oh, thanks,” John said, handing it over. His fingers brushed against Sherlock’s, and something flared with life in his chest at the contact. Sherlock swallowed and looked back at the sink, cleaning the mug, the flush to his skin over his collar only making him appear more lovely. He seemed to blush quite a lot, these days.

“It really is great to have you back,” said John. “And thank you for getting this hot chocolate – it’s my favourite,” he said, noting the rest of the tin had been placed next to the tea bags.

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock murmured. He appeared at a bit of a loss now there was nothing else to wash up, and turned to look at John properly. John noted that he looked quite tired, and there was a thread of anxiety in the way he was shifting his weight, though he was trying not to show it. 

“Good trip?” John asked, going for a safe topic. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock, leaning against the counter, but not at all nonchalant. “… productive, anyway,” he added. “But… I am glad to be back. You’re right, a week was too long,” he said softly. John took a breath as their eyes connected again, nerves singing. A moment later and he found himself gulping and looking away. 

“Case for Mycroft, was it?” he asked, cursing himself for breaking the moment.

“Mycroft? What… Oh. South America. Yes, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, an uncharacteristic stumble in his voice before he wiped it smoothly away. 

“Right,” said John, suddenly miserable. “Good. Well, uh… you’ll want to get properly settled back in, I expect,” he said. His internal voice was berating him, but his nerves were making him break out in a cold sweat, so he kept backing off no matter what his inner monologue threw at him. “I’ll er… I’ll just take the rubbish out, shall I?” He turned towards the kitchen bin, stomach roiling, ashamed. 

“…OK,” Sherlock said. “I… yes. I suppose I am a little tired.” John pulled the full bag out of the bin as Sherlock moved past him, half a meter away but as far as another continent. “See you tomorrow,” Sherlock said, almost like a question. John opened his mouth to say something else, but nothing came out, and Sherlock didn’t see the attempt as he kept his back turned. John closed his mouth lest he start swearing at himself out loud, as after a pause Sherlock picked up his bag and moved off and away into his room, posture bowed. 

John tied the sides of the bag together with more force than necessary, almost ripping the plastic, then hefted it and walked out the door and down to the community bins so quickly that he forgot his coat. Shivering in the cold and with the smells of the rubbish making him wince, it was all too easy to start sliding back into the winter melancholy that he thought he had left behind him. 

What had he been thinking, earlier? Sherlock was his friend, his best friend, and doing anything to risk that was total madness. John would lose him, lose this little family that they had built together. He couldn’t do it: it was too far a leap to make. Cruel gravity would pull him down, pull them both down, and everything they had would be dashed onto the rocks below. 

John heaved the huge plastic lid open on the community bin, but as he tried to swing their bag up and into it, the plastic gave, split, and pieces of rubbish fell out around his shins. 

“Perfect!” John said, angrily into the air. The streetlamp cast an orange glow over the mess, and he swore as he started picking things up and throwing them into the large bin piece by piece. A box from a microwave lasagne, egg carton, crisp packet, milk carton… he paused, squinting at the unfamiliar packaging. This wasn’t their usual brand, and as he looked closer he saw the words on it weren’t in English. The brand was ‘Italac’, made in Brazil? John sat back on his heels, puzzled. The only explanation of how this carton had found its way into their rubbish, was that Sherlock had brought it back with him from his trip. But why on earth would he have done that? Frowning, he tossed it into the bin, but now he was alert he almost immediately found something else – a paper wrapper from a tin of chilli powder called ‘Ají panca’. This one came from Ecuador, and it was with some shame as he looked at it that John realized he didn’t even know which countries Sherlock had just visited. 

The final piece of the puzzle (and just about when John truly accepted how slow he could really be), was the chocolate wrapper. This brand was called ‘Marañón: Fortunato Number 4,’ from Peru. He stared at it for a second, dumbfounded, then with numb fingers pulled his phone out of his back pocket. “Marañón chocolate,” he read aloud quietly after a quick internet search, “…made from the white-coated beans of the Pure Nacional tree that was thought to be extinct until rediscovered growing in one small canyon in 2007, is also known as ‘the Rolex of chocolate’. It is the world’s rarest chocolate, and sale is limited to only the most elite chocolate makers worldwide... it is the standard by which all fine chocolate must be measured… prior to its official rediscovery, there were only whispers of its continued existence on the black markets of South America…” He scrolled a little more, then rested the phone on his knee, thoughts whirling.

Sherlock’s own voice spoke to John from his memory. ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, then whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’ Sherlock had travelled around South America and sought out the three ingredients – a specific milk, special chilli blend, and chocolate so fancy that John had literally never heard of it. Judging by Mrs. Hudson’s reaction, these were the exact ingredients needed for her perfect hot chocolate… but how? How did Sherlock even know what was needed to go into it? 

John had another flash of memory then – of Sherlock pinning a drug-dealer to an alley wall, long after they had subdued him, and shouting ‘Tell me what you know!’ But… but he couldn’t have been talking about a hot chocolate recipe? Could he? And how did he even know that this dealer had any connection to the old syndicate that Frank Hudson used to run?

Leaving all that aside… why? Why the hell would Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, spend a week on a mission to revive a 60+ year old underground Latin-American hot chocolate recipe?

‘…I guess she wanted to reclaim some of those good times…’ John remembered saying that, in a conversation he had with Sherlock in front of their fire, months ago. It had been just after Mrs. Hudson had commented that the recipe was ‘lost to her’. John also remembered saying, ‘Sometimes I wish I could remember the good without the bad, too.’ But… was that really it? Was it possible that Sherlock had heard all of that, taken it, and run with it – all the way to South America? Just to make Mrs. Hudson happy?

‘…to believe in giving gladly, for no reason, just because, to believe in love…’

John stood up so suddenly that he startled a street rat into running out from under the bins. He gathered the rest of their rubbish and threw it away, his heart pounding, and hurried back to the flat. He took the stairs two at a time, trying to outrace his own nerves. Because of course, of course Sherlock would do something like that. He had leaped off a building, escaped intensive care with a gunshot wound, killed a blackmailer, risked exile, given John to Mary, schemed and lied and fought and learned how to do toddler crafts for fuck’s sakes… all to make other people happy. A trip across the world to go shopping for rare ingredients was nothing at all. But that mad hunt for ingredients hadn’t been for John – for John, he had chosen differently. Sherlock had chosen a cheap brand with no added importance to anyone else, a brand that he knew would have value just to John… He barrelled through the door to the flat, out of breath. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but the flat smelled of hot chocolate, candles, and Christmas magic. John ran a hand over the blanket on his chair as he rushed by it to get to Sherlock’s bedroom door, then he stood, took a centring breath, and knocked. 

There was a pause, then Sherlock opened the door and stood before him looking tired and bemused, the room pitch black behind him. He had changed into his old grey sleep clothes, shirt inside out, hair puffed up on one side and flat on the other. He looked soft and rumpled and worried and John loved him, loved him, loved him. 

“John?” Sherlock asked. “What is it? Is it Rosie?” Sherlock ran his eyes over John from head to toe, and John fancied that his skin glowed as if floodlit. 

“No, Sherlock. No, everything’s fine. I just wanted to ask you something,” John said quietly. He took a half step forward, and Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his feet then back up, brow furrowed. 

“John?”

“It’s alright,” John soothed. “It’s alright, I promise. I just want to ask you – why did you go to South America?” Sherlock frowned and looked off to one side. 

“There was a case…”

“No, there wasn’t,” John interrupted, quiet but sure. “There wasn’t a case, Sherlock. And… it’s alright,” he said again, taking another half step, because it was. It was alright. “There wasn’t a case. So why did you go?” Sherlock had leaned back slightly, eyes wide, obviously thrown by John moving into his personal space. He didn’t answer the question, but huffed a breath out through his nose, cornered. 

“See, I think you went there to find something to make Mrs. Hudson happy,” said John. “So she could remember something good. Something she thought she had lost. Is that why?” John let his voice gentle even more, almost to a whisper. He was standing on the threshold to Sherlock’s room now, and Sherlock was staring back at him, still befuddled but seemingly mesmerized. 

The detective hesitated, and John wondered what kind of distraction technique he might use next… but then Sherlock nodded. It was a small, soft movement, but it caused a landslide somewhere thousands of miles away that swept away remnants of battles long past, and made a path for something new. The pale man seemed to have an internal argument, then admitted,

“She deserved to have it back.” His voice was matched in volume to John’s, as though they were both afraid to fully wake the other. 

“Yes, she did,” John agreed, smiling. “That was a good thing you did,” he added, and Sherlock smiled a small bashful smile, not negating the statement for once. “And it was good what you did for me, too, Sherlock. For everything you’ve done for me.” Sherlock’s eyes went even wider at that. 

“Well…” he offered, and a further exhale seemed a little shaky. John’s heart clenched at the obvious nerves Sherlock was displaying – how far from the haughty detective he was, here lit with candles, fire, and fairy-light. “You deserve it, too,” he said. John couldn’t take his eyes off him – he looked like something out of a dream. Magic. 

“I don’t know about that,” John said, putting his left hand up on the door frame. Sherlock’s eyes didn’t flicker this time, but remained fixed on his own. “I’ve been… well, pretty shit, let’s be honest.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed in that familiar way of his, and John gripped the doorframe lest he reach up to smooth the furrows away. 

“You do deserve it though,” Sherlock said earnestly. “You deserve to have all the good parts back, too. I’m afraid I contributed in no small fashion to the bad parts,” and then he finally broke eye contact, looking at the floor, head down. The twist in John’s chest was literally painful then, and he realized that this was it. All his nerves were gone. It was time. 

Keeping one hand on the door, he reached for Sherlock’s jaw, feeling the muscles jump in surprise as he made contact. Sherlock’s eyes immediately came up, huge, glossy, stunned, and beautiful. There were whole worlds being carried in those eyes.

“Everything good in my life,” John said with a quiet and fierce intensity that was not to be argued with, “Everything… it all started with you, Sherlock. You didn’t have to give me the good parts of the past, because you make everything good, right now. You’re making things good. It… it comes from you.” Sherlock appeared to have stopped breathing and blinking, and John rubbed a soothing thumb gently over his cheek in reassurance as he felt a fine tremble there. He stepped forward again, and now they were toe to toe. John felt the heat coming off Sherlock’s chest, radiating out towards his own. He rubbed his thumb over that cheek again, smiling upwards, and Sherlock came back to himself with a whistle of indrawn breath that raised hairs on the back of John’s hand. Sherlock tilted his head then, ever so slightly, the pressure just noticeable on John’s hand, and John felt giddy. Sherlock’s stunned eyes began to sparkle with a bit of familiar mischief, and if possible, John fell just a little bit more. 

“So… it’s all fine?” Sherlock whispered, and he brought his left hand up to cover John’s own where it had curled around his jaw, leaning forward a little, tempered still with something in his expression that said he couldn’t quite believe that this was real. John grinned at the familiar phrase, grinned at everything that was happening. 

“Well… almost,” he teased, tilting his head too until he could feel Sherlock’s breath against his lips, count his eyelashes, bask in the happy incredulity dancing in the deep waters.

“Almost?” Sherlock questioned, voice barely there.

“Mmm,” John said, free hand coming up to rest on Sherlock’s neck, fingertips just trailing into the hair at his nape. “We did agree, if you remember, that we wouldn’t be giving gifts.” He made sure to keep his tone light, but Sherlock still blinked at that, unsure, his other hand coming up to hold John’s elbow, touch feather-light. 

“Oh. Well…” Sherlock said, eyes searching, obviously puzzling if he was meant to be contrite or not, given the outcome. “It’s fine. You don’t have to give me anything.” The quiet baritone rumble thrummed against John’s ribs. Their noses bumped together, and John couldn’t wait anymore. 

“Yes, I do,” he said, and finally closed the gap between them, heart singing. 

Sherlock’s lips were soft and warm - and they tasted like magic; like joy… and like hot chocolate.

**Author's Note:**

> Credits roll to the song, ‘Invisible’ by Sara Larsson, orchestral version. Feel free to imagine our happy little family running around a Christmas market in the snow as you listen :-D
> 
> Link: https://youtu.be/56ebQVdotE8
> 
> Selected lyrics:
> 
> How many nights do you lie awake  
> In the darkest place?  
> How many days 'til you shed the pain  
> Of your darker days?  
> All I know is  
> If happy lives a mile away  
> A couple steps is all it takes  
> If kindness lives in everyone  
> Then all it takes is standing up…
> 
> Here’s a link to the pop version too:  
> https://youtu.be/yGJ5KgqZmok  
> ********************************  
> Written for the ‘2020 Advent Collection Johnlock Style’, December 2nd prompt ‘hot chocolate’. I’ll be back with another unrelated entry on the 25th, ‘opening gifts’! Special thanks to @Tindomerelhloni for setting up this collection challenge, and to @Raechem and @Randomwordsonpaper for beta reading and giving feedback. Can’t wait to see the rest of the collection <3
> 
> I would love to read your comments!
> 
> Podfic now available! https://archiveofourown.org/works/29038944


End file.
